


Nothing Is Wrong With You

by Arrestzelle



Series: Rammstein Requests [17]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking & Talking, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Reise Reise Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Flake uses alcohol as a crutch, no doubt about it. But as our unnamedthingcontinues on, it becomes steadily more apparent: he only fucks me when he’s utterly wasted. It begs the question: is there something about me, about him, about us, that has him drinking himself to oblivion before we have sex? I need to know.
Relationships: Till Lindemann/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Series: Rammstein Requests [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523702
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Nothing Is Wrong With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> This is a request for Inchy on Tumblr!! I was feeling like writing TillFlake, so here we are. ♡ 
> 
> This is [Reise Reise era](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5a669a015fe6dd039591f44192d55354/8f3d8678f51729dc-64/s1280x1920/3722a42d113bb5cd3ca9ba714676cb49bfed500c.jpg)! Teddy bear Till era, more like.

It’s dark. The tangle of blankets are slightly damp with our sweat, but made warm from conjoined body heat. Flake is resting limply against my side. Head upon my shoulder and chest, his long hair strewn across his face, my skin. I watch him, in the dimness of the lamp set on its lowest brightness. With this gentle light, I can see the severity of his body. The sharpness of his shoulder, and its lack of muscle. The valleys of his rib cage, expanding and deflating with every slow in and out. The angle of his nose. The slashes of shadows made by those eyelashes, lain across his flushed cheeks. His arm is draped around me, broad hand limply curled around my side. He’s warm. And drooling on me. But I don’t mind it.

Holding him, somehow, has become just as enjoyable, if not more, than the sex itself. When we have sex, Flake is always drunk. Always brash, always clumsy, insatiable. He’s rougher to me than he would be if sober. Pins me down, kisses me harshly, purposefully leaves red marks across my back with bared nails. I’m sure my filth is caught under them now. I’m curious to know. I gather that limp hand in mine, and lift it cautiously. Cradling those practiced fingers in my own, I angle his fingertips to shine them under the light.

He needs to clip them soon. The tips are dirtied by me. I can see my skin, built underneath. I lower his hand back down, turning my head to gaze at his sleeping face. Reaching out, I instead sweep his long hair back, if only to expose the entirety of him to me.

I wonder why he likes to hurt me. It’s not a bad kind of hurt. It’s something I thrive on: receiving the brutality of others, transform it into something morbidly beautiful. Maybe Flake knows that. That I can be an outlet for whatever he needs to sate. It’s fine with me. It just makes me wonder.

In the morning, I wake. Flake has his back to me, curled up in a ball of blankets. His hair is disastrous around his head, upon his pillow. The sun is shining in through the window of his bedroom. I gaze at it, sleepily. Letting my brain take time to awaken. And when it does, I look at Flake again. He calls to me. I slide closer under the covers, pull carefully at the bundled cocoon he’s made for himself, unraveling it, so I can join him. I draw my big arm around him, pull his long back into my warm, soft chest. He shifts a little. I lean in over him to kiss at his temple, at the side of his head among locks of umber.

“Morning,” I whisper, my voice gravelly from sleep. He makes a soft exhalation of sound and turns his head slightly to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot, heavy. His brow is knitted. He brings his hand up to sluggishly press it to his forehead.

“Ugh,” he replies. I kiss him on the back of that hand, and when he pulls it away to look at me, I kiss his forehead, too.

“You’re being affectionate,” he mumbles. I hum. I shift a little closer, just to gather him that much tighter in my embrace. He grins a little, tiredly so. Raking his hair from his face, he mumbles coyly, “Like a teddy bear. You’re really warm. And… Heavy.”

“Deal with it,” I murmur, grinning slyly. He definitely likes to complain in the morning, I’ve discovered. Especially when he’s hungover, like he is now. He looks at me in that embarrassed way of his; tightly-pressed lips, a wary shyness in those blue eyes. It just looks a bit disgruntled when joined by obvious exhaustion. I rest my head back down, sighing with contentment while I held him close in my arms. I close my eyes. Flake breathes. I can hear it and feel it.

“Your dick somehow found its way between my thighs,” he mutters, “I guess I’ll keep it warm for you.”

I can’t help but snort a light laugh. I’m not sure if that’s a way to tell me to back off, but he didn’t explicitly state as much, so I don’t move. His thighs are quite nice, anyways. Flake doesn’t seem to mind. He remains laying there, shifting when he adjusts the blankets around himself. And then he goes limp again, nuzzling into the pillow and simply letting me hold him in my arms.

Unfortunately, Flake mumbles about having to pee in a few moment’s time. He slips out of my embrace, leaving the warmth of the bed to flee into the bathroom. I roll over in his bed, staring out of his window, and wonder if he considers me now overstaying my welcome. It feels that way now. I get up from the warmth, too, to find my clothing.

* * *

Days pass of fatherhood, of Flake caring for his daughter, and I with my own. Normalcy found when there is no music to be made, no concerts to be performed. And then, as anticipated, he texts me, informing me that his daughter is with her mother now for a day, and he wants to go out and grab food with me. Flake has always been the type to enjoy time spent with others. I wonder why he doesn’t text Paul about this—Flake knows I have my own family to handle, my own plans to be enacted. It must be the same for him as it is for me: even if I have other options, I always turn to him. There’s something about this _thing_ between us that I can’t resist. Some days, I do have to turn him down for the sake of promises I made to other people, and that always stings. But now, I can say yes, so soon after our last evening spent together. I pretend I don’t have responsibilities to be handled. They can wait. I’ve always been an indulgent man, and this is no exception.

Flake pulls up in his car. I climb in, dropping my bag with a change of clothes at my feet. He looks at it, looks at me. He doesn’t comment. Instead, he gives me a slight smile, flicking his hair back out of his face, and says, “What do you feel like having?”

We settle on pizza. I pay for both pizzas. I’ve always been chivalrous towards my current sexual partners. Flake argues weakly at first, but doesn’t fight it, because I’m stubborn when it comes to this. I carry both in my lap on the drive back to his flat in Prenzlauer Berg.

In his kitchen we now stand. I make us both plates with the pizza Flake chose for himself, and the pizza I selected. Flake seems more at ease today. He talks about the activities he’d been up to with his daughter, namely trying to figure out her homework with her. Taking her out to the playground nearby—he comments on how wild kids act, and he wonders at what point he grew out of that. When is that behavior considered too childish to a boy? He never really made a conscious choice to ‘grow up’—it just happened. He talks about the conversation he had with her mother. I like to listen to him talk. I reply when necessary, just so he keeps talking. I could always be his audience. That is, until he’s drunk. Then he becomes just a bit annoying.

We stand at the counter, cramming pizza into our faces, accompanied by beer. He talks and talks, and then implores me to. I describe how I spent my week. He asks about certain topics I bring up. And I talk about them.

It’s really not my idea of a perfect evening. There are things I’d rather do than stand around talking. But it’s time spent with Flake, so I enjoy it more than I would’ve if it was with some woman I was currently seeing. It’s easier with him. Soon, when our stomachs are full and harder liquor is poured, we settle in the small living room, get comfortable on the couch. At this point, we’ve traversed into more serious lands. I asked him about the woman he knocked up—a few years ago. He tells me that he was lucky it wasn’t one of the prostitutes he hired back in the day. Instead, it was her, and another woman within the same social circle, but they both have full custody of those children, which is fine by him. He just sends money to help support. I don’t say anything more, I just listen, because I can tell based on his body language and expression that there is more for him to say.

He talks about the shock of it, the anxiety of it, and, on a more humorous note, the effort it took to keep these pregnancies a secret. But what came with this is the wary optimism of having more children. That maybe more will come of it. Of giving another child his all.

Maybe that’s why he likes cats so much. Caring for something and seeing it blossom, and having them love him unconditionally in return—it’s quite rewarding. I know how that feels, to a degree. I’m very protective of my daughter, and would do anything for her. And for my friends’ kids as well. After all, I am Uncle Till. I have to live up to that title.

Time passes and conversation carries. I watch him get up and refill his drink about four times, coming back with more bottles of beer. I already know what’s coming. It turns me off a bit from drinking myself. I watch him become progressively more intoxicated, until he’s becoming a bit more bold, saying things he wouldn’t say otherwise. I’m feeling a bit restless. I realize I don’t like what he’s doing. I’m not sure why. I just know I need a breather, so I get up and say I’m going to go out and grab us more cigarettes. He agrees wholeheartedly, and staggers up onto his feet to grab his coat, but I stop him by planting a big hand against his bony shoulder and forcing him back down onto the couch. He collapses easily.

“Stay here. I’ll be quick,” I say, insisting. He looks up at me with glassy eyes and a knit brow, lips pursed. He shrugs, nodding, and grabs at the piece of pizza he retrieved from the kitchen during his last trip there. He takes a massive bite and says something that sounds like ‘hurry up, then’. I grab my coat and wallet, and step out.

As I walk the few blocks to the shop, hands in my pockets, thoughts sifting through piled musings, I quickly come to the conclusion. It’s obvious when I truly think about it. Flake uses alcohol as a crutch, no doubt about it. But as our unnamed _thing_ continues on, it becomes steadily more apparent: he only fucks me when he’s utterly wasted. It begs the question: is there something about me, about him, about us, that has him drinking himself to oblivion before we have sex?

As of right now, he’s just tipsy, bordering on drunk. If I stop it now, it won’t worsen. This time, I decide, I won’t allow him to cross that threshold, to the point of inability to stand, to barely able to perform in bed sexually. Maybe then, we could have sex that isn’t steeped in disorientation and drunken aggression. That won’t result in forgotten memories and lost touches. I wonder if he even remembers the things I tell him when we fuck. He never brings it up, and whenever I do—talk about our nights in detail—he shies away. I just let it drop, because there’s no reason to try and talk about it when the other person isn’t receptive to it.

I walk a bit briskly now, anxious to get back to the flat. Shortly after arriving at the small corner store, I have the cigarettes, now a few euro poorer. The distance from here to his doorstep seems infinitely longer.

Only once I step back into the flat do I forcefully erase the wrinkled concern on my face. Kicking off my boots, I hang my coat. In the living room, Flake is absent. I hear him moving about in the bathroom, so I retake my seat, drop the packs on the table cluttered with bottles, dirtied plates, and Flake’s glass containing melting ice. Propping my elbow against the backrest of the couch, I rest my head against my raised fist and contemplate how to approach this. I have a minute to ponder it. Flake emerges a moment later, wiping wet hands off on his jeans, his back curled, long hair framing his flushed face. He lifts his head to look at me, and grins a little drunkenly.

“I don’t know how, but every time I do my laundry, I forget to hang the hand towel back on the hook in the bathroom.”

He drops down beside me. I stare at him, and he stares at me, scraping his long hair out of his face. This shit is always easier when you just spit it out, so I do.

“You should stop drinking,” I say, keeping my voice level, searching in his eyes. “I know we’re going to have sex, and I want you to be coherent this time.”

His head recoils slightly, and then he laughs lightly, brow knit.

“Uh, since when have you ever had problems with us drinking?”

“I don’t have problems with drinking,” I murmur, watching him look away. He’s staring at the cluttered table in front of us, shifting into a more comfortable position, crossing his legs, while I spoke. “We haven’t fucked with some semblance of…”

I pause, gesturing with an open hand, searching for a word.

“Normalcy. I don’t care if you get drunk. If that gets you going easier, fine. But I’m not about to fuck another limp-noodled version of you that can barely keep his head up.”

That has Flake bursting out a sharp, nervous laugh. He raises his hand to scratch at his neck, under his hair. He peeks at me briefly, but trains his gaze on the empty plates again.

“I’m s-surprised you haven’t just dropped me and left, then. It’s not that fun screwing a limp noodle.”

I watch him, silently. He ducks his head, eyes downcast. He nods, expelling a deep sigh.

“Okay. Sure. I’ll—I’ll stop drinking, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, scrutinizing his expression, barely seen past his curtain of hair. He looks a bit dejected, almost. His lips are turned down slightly, and the way he sits back and sighs again, propping his elbow against the arm rest—he’s attempting to blow it off, to accept this with grace, but something’s bothering him.

“Can you tell me why you drink yourself to that state every time?” I ask, attempting to sound gentle. “I get wanting to loosen up, but… You get pretty wasted whenever we move to the bed. Like you wait until you’re at that point.”

Flake glances at me briefly, and I meet his eyes, trying to silently communicate encouragement, imploring him to tell me. He purses his lips, chin tucking to gaze down at his hands. He shrugs. He’s silent for a moment, contemplative. I allow him time. He speaks in a low mumble.

“Feels like something’s w-wrong with me. I’m worried I’ll be a boring lay if I’m not drunk. It’s rare for me to have sex without the aid of alcohol. Worried what it’ll be like if I’m completely sober. I’m used to fucking when I’m drunk. I’m unfamiliar with it when I’m not. What if I can’t—”

He pauses, sighing. He shakes his head, rubbing his hand down over his face. He shrugs and looks at me again. He speaks quietly, a wry, false smile on his face.

“Stupid insecurities.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” I decide to say, because it’s true. “Sex _can_ be more exciting and fun with drinks. And it is for me, too. But sex can be just as good with the right person, intoxicated or not. Whatever—I’m sure you’ve been told that before. So just give it a chance. At least, with me.”

The uncertainty on his face fades. He continues rubbing at the side of his neck, elbow against the armrest, signs of his nervousness. But then he smiles at me, albeit faintly. He nods.

It doesn’t take much longer to get to that point. Now that it’s been established, that I can have Flake as he is, it’s all I can think about. Conversation doesn’t interest me. I watch his mouth and want to kiss it. So, I do. And then all that’s left is the distance between the couch and the bed.

In the bedroom, I drag his shirt off his skinny torso, toss it to the floor for me to immediately explore this exposed skin. I step closer, sweep my hands over his sides, up to squeeze at his flat chest. He hikes up my shirt as well, so I pause to strip it off myself in one fluid motion, bearing my broader torso, my thicker stomach. He touches me, too. A gentle drift of fingers along my furred stomach, across the big scar which he doesn’t linger on. I take his hand, gripping it, and raise it to my face, kissing his curled knuckles, gazing into his shy, blue eyes. A coy smile is on his face. He’s cute when he doesn’t mean to be.

Stepping closer, I lean in to kiss him lightly. I feel a hand rest on the back of my neck, cradling me. He kisses me back just as gently, no rush into something indulgent. While we kiss, he brings his hand to my side, stroking across my warm skin—it feels good, such a chaste touch from him. I soak it up. Meanwhile, I undo his jeans, popping open the button, pulling down the zipper. I touch at his flat stomach, fingers roaming, basking in the feeling of him. It feels different this time; the kissing, the touching. Flake isn’t as impatient, it seems. When he’s heavily intoxicated, he’s eager to move on. Giddy, laughing, joking. Now he’s all shy touches and slow kissing. It’s an appreciated change of pace. While I do enjoy filthy, hurried sex, it’s just as nice to take it slow and savor.

I guide Flake to bed, and in all his gangly-limbed glory, he crawls to the head of the bed, moving to lay on his back. I can’t repress my faint grin. Curling my fingers around the waistband of his jeans, along with his underwear, I drag both down his lean legs and fling them elsewhere. Climbing on, I run my hands up along his shins, feeling the drifting touch of his leg hair, up to those beautiful thighs. Flake rests with a coy grin on his face, his blue eyes wide behind those glasses, his long hair strewn about his face. Resting on my side next to him, I lean in to kiss him, my hand curling comfortably around one of his inner thighs, gripping possessively.

“Till,” he sighs right before our lips join. I’m not entirely sure what he attempted to convey, but hearing him exhale my name like that is always appreciated. I kiss him passionately, bringing that hand up from his thigh to cradle his face in my palm. I enjoy being with him like so. Holding him. Kissing him. He’s more controlled, almost timid, when more sober than he is drunk. He is still tipsy, as shown in how he boldly turns to me, to wrap his arm around me and press us flush together. The way he smiles into the kiss, unashamed in how he returns it. I know that liquor gives him courage. If it makes it all easier on him, that’s fine by me.

Now, I feel his half-hard dick against me. I give him a departing, firm peck on the lips and withdraw. He looks at me with glasses knocked out of place, his cheeks flushed, lips kissed. Cute. While I stand to dispose of my remaining pieces of clothing, I see him remove his glasses and lean over to set them aside on the table by the bed. And then he settles his gaze on me. Surely, I’m more of a blurred image to him now, but at least he gets the picture. Regardless, I can easily accept being unseen.

Rejoining my skinnier partner, I bundle him up in my big arms and hold him to myself. He burrows into me and I kiss his forehead, his brow, his nose, ducking my head and angling it to properly kiss him. Clutching him so close to me hinders the kiss itself, but the warm intimacy of it makes up for the lack of intensity. He wraps his arms wholly around me, hands curling up around my shoulders. Our legs are tangled. My hard cock is perched along the incline of his hip, and he against my thigh. He reaches down in-between us. Gathers our dicks in one big hand, and strokes us together leisurely. It’s a nice sensation more than a mind-blowing one. Spit would make it better, but feeling him against myself like this makes me feel loved more than it makes me feel horny. The way he strokes at us both lightly, fingers drifting, really has me sinking further into the pit of sexual appreciation. I could lay like this forever with him.

If it weren’t for our undeniable appetites, I surely could. Instead, I close the kiss with a peck to the corner of his mouth, earning a coy smile and a slight huff of a laugh. I press our foreheads together, my hands lost in his long hair, cradling his head. Then I push him onto his back, and make my way down. I lay my lips against his flat belly, his bony hips, his lean thighs. I cradle his hips with my hands. I nose at his hard shaft, smelling him. I lick at the heat of him, flatly roaming my tongue from the base of his balls to the frenulum of the head. He lets out a shuddering noise. He tastes as I remember.

Close to an hour is spent touching him. A dormant drive to worship him with lips and tongue, both physically and verbally. He hides in his hands and his hair, but I can see him in the way he writhes, the way his stomach heaves, his legs when they tremble. Close to an hour is spent loving him, and getting him ready for me. Evidently, the alcohol does help with this—when he’s blind drunk, pain is dulled. Now, it takes more time, and there is never enough lube. But that’s fine with me; more time is spent watching him, feeling him, savoring all of it. I offer to switch places, but he refuses.

Thus, we arrange ourselves: I lay among Flake’s pillows and the tangle of his covers, while said man unsteadily crouches over me. Propped back on a hand, it lengthens his torso, his hair falling across his red face. He’s carefully, slowly lowering himself upon my lap, after gaining the certainty that he could take it. And take it he does: his eyes squeeze shut, his mouth falls open, and his legs flex in strain. I brace my hands under him to help support his weight. I watch him gradually take more and more of me, until he’s settled on my lap and I can release a low, long exhale of relief. Flake shifts on me; he adjusts his feet on the bed, reaches up to sweep his hair back past his shoulder.

Soon, he’s rising up and down. A fluid rolling of his thin body, his cock heavy with his arousal, falling towards me as if in silent plea. I bring one hand to my mouth, slicken it with my spit, and reach in-between those lean thighs to grip it. I stroke at him languidly, in the same manner as he rides me. I feel him clench up tight around my cock, as my grip surely amplifies his pleasure. He releases an unsteady exhale, low and focused.

“A bit distracting,” he says. Encouraged, I only double my efforts; I begin really pumping my hand over him, working my wet fingers over the head. He grunts, sits heavily on my lap, and lets me. He laughs breathlessly, his face in a pleasured grimace, his grin softening to something open-mouthed. To compensate for his distraction, I use my other hand to raise him up, just enough to begin rocking up into him. His head spills back and he moans. Sweeping my appreciative gaze upwards, drinking in the result of our doing: his chest and face are flushed deeply, his belly sucked in from pleasure, legs clenched and quivering.

“How does it feel now? Different from being wasted?” I ask, curious. I know how it feels for me, but I want to know how it feels for him. He cracks his eyes open to look at me dazedly. He grunts, a cute sound caught in his throat, and scrapes his hair back from his face, clinging to his brow and eyelashes.

“It’s easy to let it blend into a pot of sensation when I can’t even lift my head,” he mumbles, eyes downcast to watch me lazily tug at his cock—my wrist has begun to hurt so now I only tease. He goes on, gaze flittering up to meet mine briefly, only to look elsewhere.

“I can focus more on how it feels from individual sources, I guess. Like, if I were blind drunk, I wouldn’t notice if you touched me anywhere but my dick, or how it feels getting fucked. Now… Well. There’s room for appreciation.”

That has me smiling faintly.

“Which do you prefer?” I press, wanting to know. Flake shrugs.

“Both are good. Both are sex. I-I don’t seem to be ruining it when I’m not plastered—so far, at least—so that’s a plus.”

I grin, snorting. I release his shaft, to instead stroke both hands up along the muscle of his calves, his leg hair tickling my fingers.

“True enough.”

He shifts a little on my lap. Bracing his hands up over my shoulders, Flake now hovers over me, his back curled, his cock resting against my bigger belly. He looks at me with a boldness in his pretty blue eyes, his long hair curtaining his face. I roam my touch up along the curl of his back, letting them settle over his shoulder blades. Flake drops his stare to a spot on my throat. He begins moving again—a quicker, deeper dropping of hips that works him over me in a manner which is infinitely more satisfying. His body meets mine in a solid connection, his legs clenched and tensing on either side of me, his cock hitting against me. Shit. I can’t help but watch, chin tucked and eyes downcast, trained on that sight of him repeatedly taking my shaft.

“So good, Flake,” I rumble, unable to withhold my tongue this time, “Taking my cock so well—and liking it. You’re dripping.”

I reach down, slipping my hand under, to swipe up the line of pre-cum dripping from the slit of his cock, connected with my stomach. I bring it to my mouth, sucking it off. Flake collapses forward, hiding his face in my hair. I hum a soft laugh, wrapping my big arms around him entirely. Taking the reins, I begin thrusting while he sits over me, gripping his skinnier body to myself as I pound into him. He groans openly, immediately rising up again, straightening his torso and placing both hands back against the bed. I mourn the embrace, but it does make for deeper, more satisfying fucking. I watch his face twist, his body bounce, his cock jerking with the motion of it, bearing the brunt of my powerful thrusting. My hips collide with his inner thighs and ass hard. He’s shaking on top of me, and his cock is dripping thicker now with his pre-cum. His moaning and grunting becomes tighter and tighter, until he’s close to whining, his legs trembling. He’s holding himself up for me, giving me the room to plow into him. It seems he can’t take it for much longer: he suddenly jolts up, scrambling off of me and collapsing back onto the bed with a hard laugh. Shocked, believing I hurt him, I rise onto my elbow and watch him, worried. I see him reach between his legs with a hand to cradle himself, laying back into the bed, hair splayed.

“Shit, Till!” he gasps, draping his other arm over his face, “Too much. B-Big beast.”

Okay, doesn’t seem to be in pain. Good. Grinning, I follow him. I crawl over him, kissing across his curled legs, gently guiding them open again. He looks at me wearily past his wrist.

“You know what you signed up for,” I jokingly say, only to peck him on the mouth, just past his hand. I see a weak grin when I withdraw. I kiss it again. He returns it this time, a firm purse while he raises his hand to cradle the back of my head. That feels like a green light. I move to lay on top of him, though sparing him of my full weight. Braced on my elbows, I smother him under me, though he seems to like it: he wraps his arms around me, angles his head to return the kiss I give him whole-heartedly.

“Idiot,” he murmurs into my mouth, “Trying to ruin me. We’ll see about that.”

I chuckle, and continue kissing him. He brings his other hand up to hold my head. I feel loved.

He wiggles under me; I pull back to let him comfortably adjust himself, and then I lay myself between his legs again. I feel a coy hand cradle my cock in big fingers. Angle it upwards, rub it into place. I take in a breath, face buried in Flake’s neck. He’s still holding the back of my head with his other hand. Carefully, I arch my hips forward and slide into him smoothly, my shaft gliding between his fingers. He groans, shifts his hips incrementally to make for a better angle, and then I begin pumping into him soundly, deep every time. He wraps his legs around me, though that makes for an unwanted position due to the fact this particular kind of hole isn’t as high as the female equivalent. I nearly slip out of him. Working my hands in between his thighs and my waist, I grip the underside of his thighs and push them up, so his hips follow, and subsequently correct the angle once more. He tips his head back and I watch his face as I begin thrusting into him again.

“Oh, God, like that,” he gasps loudly, eyes flashing open for a moment, only to squeeze shut again. I lean in, shoulders high and head low, to kiss over his forehead. Hearing him enjoy it is always incredibly rewarding to me. The collision of my hips against his ass is loud and dirty in the quietness of his bedroom. The unashamed moaning pouring forth from him, tumbling out of me. His hands find me on my rib cage, my sides, my hips, my ass. He clutches me there, spurring me on, until I’ve brought us both back to where we were: I’m slamming into him now, and he’s making similar noises as he had before. Whining, gasping. Choking out my name, as if he were going to say more, but unable to go beyond one syllable.

He begins stroking at himself. I let his legs fall into the crevice of my elbows, leaning further into him. Crowding him to the bed, pinning him as I let go. I press my face to his hair, breathing him in, grunting under my breath, body aching and winded from going on for so long, but unwilling to quit. I now lack the right mind to produce any cohesive thought beyond vulgarity. I just want to say filthy nonsense to him, though I know he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t enjoy the objectification as much as I do. Regardless, I resume the brutal pace of snapping my hips against him, while he squeezes his legs around me and grunts out a declaration of his upcoming orgasm. It encourages me to keep going, to maintain the force of which I fuck him, until he’s clenching up hard around me, spilling ropes of cum across his belly and chest, clawing at my flexing ass with his other hand. In turn, it has me finishing inside of him, until I’ve given him some of myself and can give no more.

Spent, I let my still-hard shaft slip out with a careful angling of my hips, and then I go weak on top of him. Both of us heaving for breath, Flake wraps his lean arms around me and clutches me tightly. I soak in it, eyes closed, face pressed to his.

I focus on not crushing him, no matter my level of exhaustion. I just want to prolong this full-body embrace. I want to maintain this feeling of being loved, as rudimentary as the emotion can be. If there was no love, there would be no embrace. If there was no love, I would’ve risen already to clean up and get us something to drink. I would detach and hide. But I want to be with him. I want him to see me, even the ugly parts. The sweaty, breathless, disgusting result of giving him all of me.

In the end, I kiss him weakly on the forehead which unfortunately breaks the moment, though he doesn’t let me go. He laughs under his breath and speaks in a low murmur.

“Already seeing a difference, Till. I’m still conscious at this point. That’s a first.”

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
